


The Shooting Party

by sea_spirit



Series: The Shooting Party verse [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, Fake Dating, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Friends to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:47:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25764649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sea_spirit/pseuds/sea_spirit
Summary: Scotland, 1921. When Brienne finds out her father is bringing an unwelcome guest from her past to join a shooting party at Winterfell, Sansa suggests that she ask her friend Lord Jaime Lannister for his assistance.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Series: The Shooting Party verse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2101536
Comments: 489
Kudos: 860
Collections: Jaime x Brienne Fic Exchange 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Weirwoo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Weirwoo/gifts).



> For Weirwoo, whose prompt was "Brienne hires Jaime to pose as her boyfriend/husband." There's no actual hiring involved here, but I hope it manages to be true to the spirit of the prompt, if not the letter.
> 
> This is a straight 1920s British AU, at least as straight as this humble Anglophile could make it, with the exception of a few ASOIAF place/title names thrown in. The story is all done, and I'm planning to post once a day until we reach the end. 
> 
> All my thanks to katykrash for the support, countless read-throughs, and unwavering faith that this would, in fact, get done on time. :)

_Winterfell Castle, Scottish Lowlands  
August 1921_

Sunlight streamed through the window of her bedroom as Brienne slipped on her tweed coat and peered out at the bright blue of the late summer sky. 

For the past half an hour, she’d heard nothing but the drumming of footsteps and the creaking of heavy doors as Winterfell’s staff readied the remainder of the guest wing for a houseful of visitors. But outside, beyond the trees ringing the castle’s meticulously landscaped lawns, the rolling hills would be quiet and peaceful—at least until tomorrow. 

It would be all flapping wings and barking dogs and exploding gunshots after that, and Brienne was keen to have one more wander with just the breeze and the blooming heather before the shoot began. 

After adjusting the knot of her necktie, Brienne grabbed her hat and gloves off the dressing table and headed for the door. One of the new maids nearly collided with her as soon as she opened it, squeaking out an apology before scuttling down the corridor. Two more unfamiliar girls were putting fresh linens on the bed in the room across from hers. 

She’d known the entire household by name, once, but in the years since the war none of the maids or footmen seemed to stay very long. Now, more than half of the faces were different each time she came north for a visit. 

At the top of the curving double staircase, Brienne passed someone she _did_ know—Sansa and Arya’s maid, Jeyne, who greeted her with a friendly smile—but the small hall at the bottom was miraculously empty when she descended. She threaded her way through the tall, white columns and into the soaring armory hall beyond, where muskets and broadswords and pikes from generations of Starks adorned the walls in elaborate patterns clear up to the bottom of the gallery. 

The hall was deserted, but a distant murmur of voices floated through from what sounded like the library. Brienne quietly stole in the opposite direction, crossing over into the entrance hall and making for the double glass doors at the front of the castle. 

Just as she curled her fingers around the handle, a deep voice rang out from behind her. “Miss Tarth. How fortuitous.”

Brienne lowered her arm with a sigh. _So close._

“Yes, Mr. Poole?” she asked, turning to find the Starks’ stoic old butler standing in the doorway to the armory.

“Her ladyship just asked me to send for you. She’d like a word with you before the guests arrive.” 

“Certainly.” Brienne politely bobbed her head. “I’ll go right away.” 

“Very good, miss.” Mr. Poole took a step back, as though to make way for her, and gestured to his left. “She’s in the library with Lady Sansa.” 

~*~*~*~*~*~

When Brienne entered the room, she found the two women standing together at the desk in front of the nearest window, arranging a bouquet of winter roses in a tall vase. Lady, Sansa’s beloved golden retriever, dozed in a pool of sunlight near their feet. 

“Brienne, my dear,” Lady Stark said warmly, handing Sansa the flower she’d been holding. “I didn’t expect Mr. Poole to track you down so quickly. Please, come and have a seat with me.” 

Brienne arched her eyebrows inquiringly at Sansa as she followed Lady Stark to the pair of floral Victorian sofas arranged around the hearth. She had no idea what the countess wanted to tell her, but she definitely hadn’t expected the conversation to warrant sitting down.

Sansa, seeming equally bewildered, gave a slight, wide-eyed shrug while her mother’s back was turned. 

“You look like you were on your way out for a walk,” Lady Stark said as she sat down.

“I was.” Brienne took a seat across from her, placing her hat and gloves on the cushion to her side. “It’s too glorious a day to stay inside.” 

“Oh, would you mind taking Lady with you?” Sansa asked. The dog’s ears instantly perked up. “It will be her last chance of any decent exercise until the shoot is done. You know she hates the guns.”

“You could always take her, my dear,” Lady Stark suggested.

Sansa’s face puckered in distaste, and Brienne rolled her lips together to keep from smiling. Lady Stark knew very well that her eldest daughter hated long walks almost as much as Arya disliked being trapped indoors. Sansa normally relied on Rickon to romp around the grounds with her dog, but he and Bran had left two days before for a visit with the Reeds. In his absence, it seemed the task would fall to someone else. 

“It’s all right,” Brienne said. “I’d be happy to.”

Lady thumped her tail twice in gratitude.

“Try not to stay out too long, Brienne. Our guests will be here soon.” Lady Stark’s clear blue eyes skittered over her, lingering on the brown trousers Brienne wore beneath her coat. “I’m sure you’ll want time to… freshen up before they arrive.”

Frowning, Brienne glanced down at her legs. She wouldn’t have risked such unconventional attire when they were in town, but Lady Stark had never commented on what she wore in Scotland—no matter who else happened to be visiting. 

“It’s just the Lannisters and my father,” Brienne protested. “I wasn’t planning to change.”

They all knew her far too well to be scandalized by a lousy pair of trousers. Hell, Tyrion had recommended the tailor who’d fit them for her.

“Actually, someone else is joining us.” Lady Stark laced her slender fingers together in her lap. “That’s what I wanted to speak to you about.”

“Someone else?” 

The Tarlys, Tullys, and Westerlings were all due the following day, but the slight hesitation in Lady Stark’s voice made Brienne doubt she was referring to a mere early arrival. 

“Yes.” Lady Stark sighed. “Your father asked me not to say anything, but it doesn’t seem entirely fair to spring it on you without warning.”

Brienne felt a stab of uneasiness. “Spring what on me, exactly?”

“Your father is bringing a guest.”

“A guest?” Sansa abandoned her roses to come perch on the sofa beside her mother. “Did he tell you who it is?” 

Brienne certainly couldn’t think of any likely candidates. He’d never even agreed to come _himself_ before, despite repeated invitations. 

“He did,” Lady Stark said. “His name is Mr. Hunt. I’m unfamiliar with the family, but Lord Tarth says he’s the second son of a baron in Dorset, and quite unattached.”

A cold knot twisted in Brienne’s stomach.

“Not _Hyle_ Hunt?” Sansa asked sharply.

“Why, yes.” Lady Stark’s forehead creased in surprise. “Do you know him?”

“ _I_ don’t,” Sansa muttered. “But Brienne does.” 

Brienne felt the weight of Lady Stark’s gaze on her face as she forced away the memories of men’s cruel laughter, of a charming smile twisting into a sneer. “I don’t know him well,” she finally managed. “We met briefly, just before I came to Winterfell.”

In truth, if it hadn’t been for Lieutenant Hyle Hunt, she might never have become acquainted with the Starks at all.

She’d been serving as a volunteer nurse with the VAD at a hospital in Brighton for just over a year when the men from his regiment had arrived. Within a week, Lieutenant Hunt and a few other soldiers began treating her with unusual kindness, complimenting her and seeking out her attention in a way men never had before. Brienne had been baffled—and extremely skeptical—but the lieutenant’s gallant behavior and easy smiles had gradually softened her doubt, and she’d found herself becoming rather fond of him. 

Then, apparently annoyed by her disinterest in _his_ attempts to woo her, a surly young private had told her the truth of it: they were all competing to see who could be the first to earn a kiss from the ugliest nurse on the floor. To her shame, Lieutenant Hunt had very nearly won. 

She had immediately put in a request to be transferred, and Winterfell had been as far away as she could get. Lord and Lady Stark had opened their stately home for use as a convalescent hospital only a few months before, and not many other volunteers had cared to venture that far north. 

To Brienne, however, Scotland had been a welcome escape. She’d found renewed purpose and solace in her work—and, unexpectedly, in the Starks. 

They’d been exceptionally courteous and kind, and so dedicated to the care of the men beneath their roof that Brienne had sometimes forgotten they were the resident family and not just fellow volunteers. Lady Stark would often sit with the more severely wounded men herself, letting them grip her hand and talk of home, and Sansa wrote letters for the ones who’d lost arms or hands or fingers and could no longer manage the task themselves. 

More than four years later, Brienne still didn’t know which of them had sussed out that she was a viscount’s daughter, or whose idea it had been to invite her to dinner with the family that first time. Before long, though, she’d ended up dining with them at least once a week. Arya and the boys had been fascinated and impressed that she could stalk and hunt and shoot, and when Sansa found out _Persuasion_ was Brienne’s favorite novel, she’d decided they were destined to be best friends—never mind the nearly seven-year difference in their ages.

By the end of the war, the Starks had all but adopted her, and Brienne had spent almost half of each year with them ever since. Every April, she left her home in Sussex, just outside the little seaside village that bore her family’s name, for the Starks’ London residence and didn’t return until after she’d spent the start of the shooting season at Winterfell. 

Her father always said he missed her at Evenfall Hall while she was away, but otherwise he hadn’t objected to her absence. He’d never known exactly what to do with her anyway, and she thought they’d come to an unspoken understanding that she intended to live her own life—one that wouldn’t involve marrying some lesser lord who wanted nothing more from her than a son who could inherit her father’s title.

Apparently, she’d been wrong. 

“Brienne?”

She looked up to find two pairs of matching blue eyes studying her with concern. 

“I said you must have made quite an impression if he’s coming all this way,” Lady Stark said gently. 

Brienne swallowed, but it failed to clear the bitter tang that had risen to her tongue. “I doubt that.” 

“I’m sure you did,” Lady Stark maintained. “Mr. Hunt is clearly keen to see you again, and your father seems quite keen on _him_. I think he’s hoping you’ll take a liking to him.”

Sansa let out a rare, unladylike snort. “That’s hardly likely.” 

Lady Stark’s auburn eyebrows tilted toward her hairline as she looked at her daughter. “Why not?” 

“Well, because—”

Brienne glared at her friend and gave a tiny shake of her head. For a heartbeat, Sansa faltered, and Brienne was afraid she would let it all spill out. 

But she said something even worse. 

“Because she’s taken a liking to someone else, obviously. Someone who’s as mad about her as she is about him.” 

“Is that so?” Lady Stark asked, and Brienne tried not to be hurt by the disbelief in her tone. “Is he someone we know?”

“Of course he is.” A smirk curled at the corners of Sansa’s mouth. “It’s Jaime Lannister.”

Brienne nearly choked on her own indrawn breath.

“I expect him to propose any day now,” Sansa added lightly. 

“Sansa,” she rebuked, ignoring her friend’s meaningful stare. Brienne appreciated what she was trying to do, but _this_ wasn’t the answer. 

“What?” Sansa innocently quirked her head. “Truly, I’m surprised he hasn’t asked you already.”

Brienne pressed her fingers to her forehead, trying desperately to think of a way out of this misguided scheme—preferably one that didn’t involve divulging the truth about Mr. Hunt or landing Sansa in trouble for a blatant lie. Not that she expected Lady Stark to _believe_ it for a single second anyway. Why would she? It was preposterous. 

“You never said a word of this, Brienne.” Lady Stark pursed her lips in thoughtful consideration. Something flickered around her eyes, though whether it was surprise or pity or simply disapproval Brienne couldn’t say. “There’s no arguing that the man seems attached to you. And I’ve always known you were fond of him. You must be, in order to tolerate him as you do. But marriage?” 

Astonished, Brienne could only blink at her. “I’m—it isn’t,” she floundered. “ _We_ aren’t—” 

Lady Stark abruptly held up her hand. “I’m sorry, Brienne. That was unkind. You don’t owe me an explanation, of course, it’s just… I hope you’ll be careful. Lord Lannister is certainly a better man than he was, but once you make that choice, it cannot be unmade.” 

“Mother,” Sansa interjected, “Brienne is perfectly capable of making her own decisions.” 

“I know she is,” Lady Stark replied, addressing her daughter but still looking at Brienne. “But I care about her very much, and I want her to be happy. I hope she knows that.” With a small, sincere smile, the countess rose to her feet. “Now, it seems I have to speak with Mr. Poole about the bedroom arrangements. I’d planned to put Lord Lannister across the hall from you, but that won’t do at all, under the circumstances.” 

Brienne tightened her jaw as Lady Stark walked away, knowing it was her last chance to reel this madness back in and hating herself for not taking it.

Halfway to the door, Lady Stark paused to glance back at them. “I won’t say anything about this to your father, but you really should tell him, Brienne. And poor Mr. Hunt is sure to be disappointed. We should all try to be especially kind to him while he’s here.”

“Don’t worry, Mother.” Sansa smiled sweetly. “I promise we’ll treat him with all the kindness and civility he deserves.” 

~*~*~*~*~*~

As soon as the sound of Lady Stark’s footsteps died away in the hall, Brienne slumped against the back of the sofa. “I can’t believe I just lied to your mother.”

“You didn’t, though, did you?” Sansa trilled. “Technically, you didn’t say anything.”

“I’m aware of that,” Brienne grumbled, glowering at the self-satisfied look on Sansa’s face. “You said plenty for the both of us.” 

“Oh, don’t be cross. Actually, you should be thanking me.”

“ _Thanking_ you?” 

“Yes,” Sansa said decidedly, smoothing her hands over the navy fabric of her skirt. “I have no idea why you don’t want everyone to know the truth about bloody Hyle Hunt, but you obviously don’t.” She wrinkled her nose. “And I refuse to watch that cretin flirt at you for the next five days. Who better to help get rid of him than Lord Lannister? He’ll enjoy it. You know he will.” 

Her final point was undeniable. Jaime would doubtlessly take a galling amount of pleasure from that part of the task. But that didn’t mean the rest of the ruse would work. 

Brienne shook her head. “Nobody will believe that he would—that he’s…” 

“What? Courting you?” Sansa rolled her eyes. “Yes, they will. He called on you almost every day while we were in town this season. Just like he has every other year.” 

“That’s because he’s my _friend_.”

Sansa gave her a dubious look, and Brienne’s heart dropped toward her stomach, leaving a hollow ache inside her chest.

Of course Sansa knew. How could she _not_ know? 

For years, Brienne had tried her best to hide the way she felt—to ignore it, to pretend it wasn’t there—but she’d never been good at concealing anything. Her every emotion always flashed across her broad, homely face. It was one of the reasons Jaime had been able to read her so easily, to rile her, right from the start. 

They definitely _hadn’t_ been friends in those days. In fact, Brienne had very nearly hated him.

He’d been wheeled into Winterfell’s entrance hall right before Christmas in 1917, recovered enough, according to the British Army, to convalesce outside of a military hospital. And while the wounds in his thigh and shoulder had been healing well enough, his mangled right hand was another story. 

The doctors in Flanders had stitched it back together as best they could before shipping him home, but the surgeon at Winterfell said he was unlikely to regain full use of it. The persistent infection that set in not long after he arrived had only made things worse, and when Brienne saw the redness and swelling and stiffness in his joints, she had worried they might yet have to take it off. 

They hadn’t, in the end, but it had been a near thing.

Even then, at his sickest, with his fever and scruffy beard and hollowed-out cheeks, he had been far and away the handsomest man Brienne had ever seen—like Apollo himself, golden and beautiful, had fallen from his chariot and landed in a hospital bed. And while his ridiculous jawline and sparkling green eyes had some of the other nurses swooning over him, they hadn’t mattered one jot to Brienne. Not when the rest of him was so unpleasant. 

He’d been terrible to everyone for weeks, sharp-tongued and vicious, but he took special delight in tormenting her. He mocked everything about her, from her height to her shoulders to her dour face, and refused to call her anything but “the giantess.” When he found out who her father was, it had become “the Honorable Giantess,” which only seemed to amuse him more. 

Then, one night, brimming with bitterness and half delirious with pain, Jaime Lannister had bared his soul to her, and things had begun to change. She saw something else when she looked at him after that, something _decent_ lurking beneath his arrogant, hateful veneer, and he… well, he started behaving as though he actually enjoyed her company. 

Jaime would have no one but her tending to his hand and changing his bandages, and he’d shocked her by sitting in silence, watching her closely while she did. When it came time for him to start walking around the garden to regain his strength, he had insisted Brienne accompany him, arguing that she was the only one strong enough to catch him if he fell. He’d continued to tease her—he didn’t seem to know how _not_ to—but the cruelty had leached away, and he suddenly seemed more intent on making her blush than anything else.

By the time he was discharged, Brienne had actually been sorry to see him go—even worse, she’d _missed_ him. She hadn’t been foolish enough to think he would feel the same, though, and she honestly never expected to hear from him again.

Six weeks later, his first letter had arrived, written in the messy, childlike scrawl of his injured hand. And he just kept on writing, nearly one missive a week for the remainder of the war, and Brienne couldn’t help but write back. Jaime continued the correspondence once she returned home to Evenfall, and when she’d gone to London with the Starks the following spring, he’d somehow been everywhere she went. 

Tyrion often joked that she hadn’t been able to get rid of him, but she’d never really wanted to. 

“Call it whatever you like.” Sansa’s voice snapped Brienne back to the present—to the dishonest mess she found herself embroiled in. “But _friends_ do favors for each other all the time, you know.” 

“This isn’t a favor, Sansa,” Brienne retorted. “This is pretending to be in love with me. He’ll never agree to that.” 

Sansa glanced exasperatedly toward the ceiling, mumbling something under her breath Brienne couldn’t decipher.

“What?”

“I think you’re wrong,” Sansa said, shrugging. “Though I suppose you won’t know unless you ask him.”


	2. Chapter 2

Head whirling, Brienne didn’t realize she’d left her hat and gloves in the library until she reached her favorite spot, a sunny downward slope well beyond the sight of Winterfell’s towering turrets and gray stone walls. There was no sense in going back for them, so she just sat down cross-legged in a patch of grass and blew out a long sigh, drinking in the view.

She missed home, sometimes, when she’d been away from it this long—the cliffs and the beaches and the sunsets that lit the sea on fire. But there was nothing like the Scottish hills when the heather bloomed and its tiny purple flowers blanketed the earth. 

Lady snuffled briefly at the ground before lying down beside her, resting her golden flank against Brienne’s thigh. She absently ran a hand over the dog’s thick, silky fur and wondered what the hell she was going to do. 

Well, that wasn’t precisely true. Brienne knew what she had to do. She only had two choices, after all; she just didn’t like either of them. 

She _should_ do the right thing, the honest thing, no matter how hard it was. However, the thought of her father’s face, of Lady Stark’s pity, of how awkward and unpleasant it would be for everyone—for _her_ —made the notion difficult to bear. If Jaime agreed to help, on the other hand, it would all be over soon enough, and no one would suffer. Except, perhaps, for Mr. Hunt. 

That idea troubled her significantly less.

The minutes ticked by as Brienne tried to persuade herself, first one way and then the other. She must have passed nearly an hour, wallowing in indecision, by the time Lady raised her head and gave a high, excited whine, looking toward the top of the hill. 

Brienne craned her neck and shielded her eyes against the sun, fully expecting to see Sansa cresting the rise, lured from the comfort of the house by the prospect of haranguing Brienne until she agreed with her proposition. But it wasn’t Sansa or any of her siblings or even the surly gamekeeper, Mr. Clegane, prowling the fields with his hounds. 

It was Jaime.

He had his fedora in his hand and his jacket slung over his arm, and Brienne tried not to notice the way her chest tightened as he approached. 

“You cut your hair,” he remarked without preamble, dropping his hat and coat and flopping down next to her in the grass. 

Brienne pressed her hand to the side of her head. Sansa had talked her into the new chin-length cut just before they’d left London. It wasn’t precisely fashionable yet, but her friend assured her that it would be. Not that it mattered much—nothing about Brienne had ever been fashionable. 

“I did.” 

His eyes, the vivid green of a meadow after a spring rain, slid down from her hair to fix on her face. “It suits you.”

An unwelcome warmth flooded her cheeks. “Thank you,” Brienne mumbled, annoyed by the way his mouth quirked at her blush. More accusingly than she meant to, she added, “You’re here awfully early.”

She’d thought she had a few more hours, at least. 

Jaime lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “We caught the early train.” 

“From Lannisport?” Brienne asked, doing the math in her head. She didn’t see how they could have made it all the way from Wales unless they’d left well before dawn. 

“We never went back to the Rock,” Jaime told her. “We stayed in London after you left.” 

“Oh.”

Neither Jaime nor Tyrion particularly enjoyed spending time in Pembrokeshire, Brienne knew—at least not when their father was there. And she didn’t blame them. The Marquess of Castamere was not a pleasant man. 

Lady stirred at Brienne’s side, shuffling closer to Jaime until she could wedge her nose beneath his palm. He laughed and obliged, scratching her behind the ears, the faded tangle of scars on the back of his hand flashing silver in the sun. “At least someone’s happy to see me.”

“I’m happy to see you,” Brienne objected. She always was.

“You don’t _look_ happy,” he drawled. “And if I’m not to blame for that formidable scowl, what is? Have the hills done something to offend you? Or is it the sunshine? I hadn’t thought to see it this far north, but—”

“Jaime.”

She meant it as a rebuke, but it came out sounding more like a plea, and the smirk abruptly fell from his lips. 

“What is it?” he asked, his hand stilling on Lady’s head. “Has something happened?”

“Yes.”

Jaime gave her a questioning stare when she didn’t elaborate, and Brienne squared her shoulders. _Now or never_. 

“My father is coming for the shoot.”

“Yes, I know,” he said, the lightness in his tone completely at odds with the way his eyebrows had pulled together. “You told me that before you left London. I’ve been looking forward to meeting the mysterious Viscount Tarth for weeks.”

It sometimes seemed impossible to Brienne that the two men’s paths had never crossed, but when she considered how rarely her father left Sussex, it really wasn’t remarkable at all. 

“He’s not mysterious. He just doesn’t like going up to town.”

“But he doesn’t mind a two-day train trip to Scotland?”

Brienne sighed. She should have been more suspicious of that herself, rather than just pleasantly surprised. 

“He probably does mind,” she mused, studying the faint plaid pattern of Jaime’s blue tie. “But he’s bringing someone with him.” Brienne lifted her eyes to his. “Someone he clearly intends for me.” 

“Oh?” Jaime’s expression grew startlingly dark. “Aren’t you a little old to be paraded in front of a suitor like a debutante?”

Brienne felt an irrational sting at his words. She might have been twenty-seven, but she was still eight years younger than _he_ was. Given what she was about to ask of him, however, it did not seem like a helpful moment to point that out. 

Because she _was_ going to ask him. Or at least tell him and see what he said. 

“That’s not the worst of it.” 

“Really?” Jaime quipped. “Dare I ask?”

“Sansa intends for me to use you as a shield.”

His face creased with amusement, at first, then went slightly pale when she revealed the rest—what Sansa had told Lady Stark about him, about _them_ , and that Brienne had allowed the countess to believe it. That her young friend had suggested she ask Jaime to help fend off her father’s guest, as a favor. As a friend.

When she finished, Jaime just sat there—still and unblinking and agonizingly silent. 

Regret and shame coiled together in Brienne’s gut. She’d been foolish even to entertain it, to hope for so much as a second that Sansa had been right. 

“I knew it was a terrible idea,” she hurried to add. “Forget I said anything.”

“That’s not likely, I’m afraid.” Jaime grinned, but there was a bitter edge to it that Brienne couldn’t make sense of. “It’s not every day the honorable Brienne Tarth asks me to lie.” 

“I—I’m not.” She shook her head. “You wouldn’t even need to _say_ anything about it, really. Just…” 

Jaime slanted forward, pulling the fabric of his well-fitted waistcoat taut against its buttons, and looked at her expectantly. 

“I suppose you would…” Brienne trailed off when she realized she had no idea _what_ he would do. How was a person meant to show sincere interest in someone else? “Talk with me, I guess, when we’re all together,” she tentatively continued, thinking of Robb and his fiancée, Miss Westerling—of how Tyrion had been with Tysha before she became his wife. “Escort me to dinner.”

Jaime huffed. “I’d do that anyway.”

That was probably true, she realized, frowning. “Stay near me on the drives, then. Ask me to go for a walk in the garden. Just pretend to…” 

“Pretend to what?” he asked innocently, but Brienne recognized the sparkle in his eyes. 

“Jaime.”

“I need to know what you would have me do, Brienne. You can hardly expect me to agree without understanding the terms.” 

Brienne scowled at him. She should have known he would make this difficult. 

“Pretend to court me,” she muttered, as quickly as she could pronounce the words. “Only until the party is over. Afterwards, I can tell Lady Stark that things have changed, or that Sansa was mistaken. And when I go back to Evenfall, I can speak to my father.” She didn’t look forward to that conversation, but it plainly needed to be done. “I really thought that he—that we were finished with this kind of thing.”

Jaime’s eyebrows lurched up. “He’s done this before?”

She nodded. “A few times.”

“You never told me.”

“You never asked.”

He flattened his lips in a disgruntled frown. “Well, I’m asking now.” 

Brienne glanced away, out over the green and purple hills. “There’s not much to tell. The first one died, the second changed his mind about the prospect as soon as he met me, and the third was nearly as old as my father.” 

“And this time?” Jaime asked, drawing her gaze back to him. “Who’s the fellow I’m meant to drive off?”

Brienne’s shoulders tensed involuntarily. “Hyle Hunt.”

“Hunt?” His forehead furrowed. “Isn’t he one of those soldiers from the hospital in Brighton?” 

“Yes.”

“Bloody hell, Brienne, why didn’t you tell me that before?” Jaime raked a hand through his hair. “Why in God’s name would your father bring _him_ here? He shouldn’t want that swine anywhere near you.”

“He probably wouldn’t,” she acknowledged, “if he knew.”

“What?” Jaime barked, so loudly that Lady startled between them. “You didn’t tell him?”

“Why would I?” Brienne bit back. Living with the memory was embarrassing enough. 

It wasn’t just that it had happened, that those men had thought her monstrous enough to make her the target of such a cruel jape. It was that she’d been stupid enough to believe them. To forget what she was—how the world saw her and always would.

“You and Sansa are the only ones who know,” she added quietly. 

“I see.” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “In that case, I’m at your service.” 

Brienne felt a rush of relief and something else—something painful she pushed away. “You are?” 

“Of course,” he declared in a tone that said she should have known. “But I’ll warn you, it will likely tarnish your sterling reputation. You know the kinds of things people say about me, Brienne.” 

She flinched back in surprise. She _did_ know, not that he often spoke of it. 

As a matter of fact, Brienne had heard rumors about him from almost the day they’d met. His records said he’d been wounded leading his men in an advance on a treacherous stretch of Flemish battlefield, but the other soldiers at Winterfell had called him a murderer behind his back. It took a few weeks to piece the whispers together, but Brienne had eventually gathered that he’d had something to do with the death of his commanding officer on the Somme nearly a year before. Something Jaime’s father had used his wealth and position to cover up. 

Brienne had believed the story—she didn’t have any reason not to—until the night Jaime told her the truth. 

He suspected that Lieutenant Colonel Aerys Targaryen hadn’t been right in the head since his days in the Boer War, but the man had grown steadily more unhinged the longer they sat stewing in the mud and blood of France. One night, convinced enemy troops had infiltrated the trenches, Targaryen had given the order to turn the gas and guns and artillery on their own line. He pulled out a pistol, threatening to shoot them all if they refused; Jaime had wrestled with him, the gun had gone off, and Targaryen had died instantly. Afterwards, his superiors hadn’t wanted the public to know that a decorated officer had gone mad and tried to murder his own men, so Jaime had to live with being thought a traitor. 

He had always claimed not to care, and Brienne had always suspected he was lying.

“People say plenty of things about me as well,” she reminded him. Brienne tried not to speak them aloud in his presence—Jaime got unreasonably agitated by comments about her _unfortunate_ appearance or her _regrettable_ spinsterhood—but she knew he’d heard them. “Besides, I haven’t heard so much as a whisper about what happened on the Somme in years. And if I did, I certainly wouldn’t—” 

“I’m not talking about Aerys Targaryen.” 

_Oh_ , she thought, taking in the sudden jut of his jaw, the disquiet in his eyes. _Cersei_.

He’d told her the truth about the duchess, too, though that confession had come much later.

Cersei, his cousin, had been Jaime’s childhood sweetheart and the only woman he’d ever loved. At nineteen, she declined his proposal for one that came with a higher rank, but that hadn’t prevented the two of them from maintaining a decade-long affair. Brienne had been shocked by the not-so-secret speculation in London that the Duke of Baratheon’s golden children were actually Lannisters, and even more so when Jaime admitted it might be true. The duchess had apparently refused to discuss it, and Jaime had come to doubt whether she even knew for sure—especially after his brother had finally told him, just after Jaime returned from Winterfell, that she’d been carrying on with other men for years. 

Brienne still remembered how devastated he’d looked, how broken, when he told her what a fool he’d been, not to see her for what she was—to have allowed her to keep him dangling on such meager offerings for so long. 

Even so, as time went by and Jaime remained a bachelor, Brienne had often wondered if he was still in love with her. You couldn’t just stop loving someone, even if you wished to. She knew that better than anyone. 

“I’ve never cared about that,” she said firmly, and it was true. Brienne had been dismayed by the situation, but it had never _mattered_ to her. Not in the way he meant. 

Jaime shook his head sadly. “You should care. You shouldn’t want anything to do with a man like me.”

“There are no men like you,” she offered, hoping to lift his mood. “Remember?” 

He’d said that to her once, early in their acquaintance, and while he hadn’t exactly sounded _proud_ of it, Brienne had put the proclamation down to his appalling arrogance. But now, after nearly four years, she knew that—for good or ill—it was true. He was Jaime.

His eyes flared at her words, and Brienne saw something unexpectedly raw in their green depths that made her heart stutter and her throat go closed. 

“Anyway,” she continued, just to break the silence, “it’s not as though my reputation is of any great consequence. I’m never getting married, Jaime.” That was, in fact, the point. Her father’s lands and title would pass to her cousin Endrew, and she would… Well, she didn’t know what she would do. Go back to nursing, perhaps? She’d been good at that, and useful, and she could use it to forge a true independence. “I am not made to be a wife.” 

Her governess had warned her father, when Brienne was young, that she would never be a good one—at least not one that any true gentleman would want. It would be hard enough finding someone to “take her” with her looks being what they were, but Brienne’s affinity for riding and fencing and shooting had, according to Miss Roelle, made it even worse. 

Brienne had liked other things, too, in those days. More feminine things. She just wasn’t nearly as good at them. Her fingers had always been clumsy at the keys or with a needle, but she’d enjoyed dancing—until she grew old enough to realize she was too big and mannish and ugly for the boys to want to dance with. 

“Is that so?” Jaime asked tightly. “Your father seems to think you are.”

“My father thinks I should settle for any man who’s willing to take me, just so he can have Evenfall and a viscount’s title in the bargain.” Brienne tipped up her chin. “I disagree.” 

She would rather spend ten lifetimes alone than subject herself to that. 

“Good,” Jaime growled. “So do I.” He gave an exaggerated dip of his head. “Which is why, as I said, I’m yours to command. Under one condition.” 

Brienne raised her eyebrows. “What’s that?”

“I will not suffer one word of reproach from you for anything I might say to Hyle Hunt. That great buffoon deserves far worse than I could ever give him. And you must play along with me, whatever happens, or it will spoil the scheme.” 

She sucked her lower lip between her teeth. Jaime could be insufferably rude even when he knew she _would_ reproach him, but Brienne doubted he’d say anything too egregious—at least not where the others could hear. And while it was dangerous to give him carte blanche in any situation, she couldn’t imagine him asking her to do anything that would cause her harm. Discomfort, to be sure. But he wouldn’t _hurt_ her. 

“That’s two conditions,” she finally muttered, knowing it didn’t matter. She needed him, and she trusted him, and she was going to say yes.

“Two, then.” Jaime smirked. “Do we have a deal?” 

Brienne nodded crisply. “We do.”

“Splendid,” he crowed, seeming far happier about it than she would have thought. “Now, we’d best get back.” He snatched his hat from where he’d tossed it in the grass and popped it on his head. “Lady Stark will throw me in the dungeons if I keep you out here too long.” 

“Winterfell doesn’t have dungeons, Jaime,” she reproached, watching him rise to his feet and slip on his jacket.

Lady sprang up as well, shaking out her long coat. 

“A tower cell, then,” Jaime replied, winking. “She gave me a very stern look when I left. Now I know why.” 

He held out his left hand to her, and Brienne took it without thinking. It was only after he’d helped tug her to her feet that she realized how strange the gesture was—they both knew she didn’t _need_ his assistance—and that he hadn’t let her go.

She tried to slip free, but Jaime shot her a sideways smile and adjusted his grip so he could lace his fingers with hers, as natural and easy as if he’d done it a hundred times before. 


	3. Chapter 3

The afternoon train must have been running late, because Brienne’s father and Hyle Hunt didn’t arrive at Winterfell until ten minutes after Mr. Poole rang the dressing gong.

Brienne had just stripped off her jacket, tie, and trousers when she heard car doors slamming in the driveway, but she didn’t dare go half naked to the window to look. She wasn’t fully prepared to set eyes on Mr. Hunt yet, anyway.

A few minutes later, just after she’d donned her slip, Brienne heard the unmistakable sounds of luggage being carted down the corridor, followed by her father’s deep voice as he thanked someone—presumably a footman—and the creak of the door next to hers as it closed. 

Over the next half an hour, several more doors opened and shut, until Brienne was sure they’d all gone down but her. Still, she delayed, sitting fully dressed on the edge of her bed until Jeyne knocked softly to check on her progress. Only then did Brienne finally rise, assuring the maid she’d be out in a minute.

She stopped in front of the full-length mirror on the way to the door, just to make sure nothing was unreasonably out of place. The dress Sansa had convinced her to buy _was_ beautiful—a blue so deep it was nearly black, covered in swirling patterns of tiny beads that glittered like jewels—but beneath it, she was still Brienne.

The new, loose-fitting style skimmed her body, hiding her lack of curves well enough, but the absence of sleeves left an unsightly amount of pale, freckled skin exposed around her collarbones and on her upper arms, above the reach of her elbow-length gloves. Sansa had said the ensemble made her look statuesque and magnificent, but Brienne just saw how broad and tall she was, how strong and thick in all the wrong places. She _did_ rather like her new haircut, mostly because it required less fussing, but the straw-colored strands were as lank and drab as ever. 

She’d always thought her eyes, at least, were pleasant—large and blue and rimmed by long, fine lashes—but they weren’t enough. Not even the most beautiful eyes in the world could detract from her too-wide mouth or too-prominent teeth or the lump on the bridge of her nose where she’d smashed it at the seashore as a child. 

Brienne huffed a short, vexed sigh. It was no use. She wasn’t going to find anything reassuring in the mirror. She never did. 

But she knew she was strong and even a bit brave, in her finer moments. She knew she could do this. 

She met her own eyes in the mirror and told herself so, just for luck, before walking brusquely to the door and out into the corridor. 

Unlike earlier in the day, the gallery was empty as Brienne approached the staircase and turned to descend. The hall at the bottom, however, was not. 

A lone figure waited for her, lounging leisurely against the nearest column, a striking black outline against the white.

Jaime was always handsome, but like this—in his tails and white tie with his face freshly shaven and the light from the chandelier glinting in his slicked-back golden hair—he was so dazzling it almost hurt to look at him. Brienne blinked rapidly, as though it would somehow clear the imprint of him from her vision, like spots after staring at the sun. 

It was laughable, really, to think that anyone would see him this way and believe _he_ would court _her_. They would surely see through the farce in an instant. 

Then again, perhaps they wouldn’t. Not if he kept looking at her like that. 

His mouth had tilted into a crooked smile, and he trailed his gaze slowly over every inch of her, from her beaded headband to her black satin shoes, as he closed the distance between them.

When his eyes wandered back to her face and lingered on her mouth, Brienne suddenly realized his appraisal had stolen every scrap of breath from her lungs. For a queer, mad moment, her eyes fell to _his_ mouth, and she wondered what it would be like to steal it back. 

“New dress?” he asked, stepping even closer to her, and Brienne gave a wordless hum of assent, not trusting herself to speak. “I quite like it. It brings out your eyes.”

“You don’t have to do that, you know,” she said hoarsely, glancing around the empty hall. “No one else can hear you.” 

Jaime reached for her hand, staring at her with eyes like molten emeralds. “No one else needs to.” 

Even through her glove, Brienne felt the heat of his lips against the backs of her fingers when he pressed a kiss to them, and the sensation sent something warm and aching and impossible sliding through the rest of her. 

Inexplicably, it made her want to cry. 

Jaime must have been able to see something of it on her face, because his forehead rippled and his grip tightened on her hand. Brienne didn’t know how she would answer if he asked her what was wrong, so she nearly died of gratitude when the sudden sound of his brother’s voice drew Jaime’s attention away from her. 

“Ah, there you are.”

Jaime released her hand as they both turned to look at Tyrion, standing in the doorway at the far end of the hall. 

“As always, you’re a sight for sore eyes.” 

“Why thank you, brother,” Jaime said, sounding strangely irritated. “But you did just see me a few moments ago.” 

“Not _you_ , you fool,” Tyrion retorted as he waddled over to them. “I meant your inimitable companion, of course.” 

“It’s good to see you, too, Lord Tyrion,” Brienne said, unable to keep herself from smiling. 

Tyrion grinned up at her, green eyes twinkling. Despite being nearly two feet shorter than his brother, he bore a remarkable resemblance to Jaime when he looked at her that way.

“I refuse to begin the evening by indulging my brother’s selfish tendency to monopolize you. He had you all to himself this afternoon.” Tyrion stretched up to place his hand at her elbow. “Now, Miss Tarth, be so kind as to accompany me into the drawing room. Your father is dying to see you, but I promised my wife I’d snag you first.” 

“Lady Tysha is well, I hope?” Brienne asked, allowing Tyrion to lead her toward the door. 

By the time she and Jaime had returned to the castle that afternoon, Tyrion and Tysha had retired to their room for a rest after the journey north. Brienne hoped it didn’t bode ill for the lady’s health. 

“Very well,” Tyrion assured her. “She just tires easily, these days.” 

Brienne opened her mouth to ask another question, but the words slid straight out of her head as soon as they entered the drawing room. Her footsteps hitched as she spied her father, standing on the far side of the large white hearth, surrounded by Lord Stark, Robb… and Hyle Hunt. 

She’d forgotten how _short_ he was—he looked absolutely miniscule next to her father—but she remembered that ingratiating smile well enough. 

The feeling of Tyrion’s hand on her arm and Jaime’s presence at her back reminded Brienne that she needed to keep moving, and, somehow, she did. Fortunately, Tyrion steered them directly to the cluster of furniture nearest the door, where Tysha was seated between Sansa and Lady Stark on a long sofa. 

“Look who I’ve found,” Tyrion announced, releasing Brienne’s arm with a flourish.

Tysha slowly levered herself to her feet, encumbered by the prominent swell of her stomach beneath her lavender dress. “Oh, Miss Tarth,” she said brightly, reaching out her hands to clasp Brienne’s much larger ones. “How wonderful to see you. And look at your hair! How marvelous!”

Brienne stooped down to exchange the airy cheek-kisses Tysha always insisted on. She normally hated that kind of thing, but it was impossible to be irked by someone so genuinely gladdened by her presence. “Good evening, Lady Tysha.”

Tysha pulled back a little, sweeping her soft blue eyes over Brienne’s face. “Lady Sansa told me you’d had it cut, but she didn’t do it justice. It’s utterly divine.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Brienne replied, hoping she sounded less discomfited than she felt. 

“Nonsense.” Tysha kept hold of one of Brienne’s hands as she lowered herself once again into her seat. “Now, you must tell me where you had it done.”

Brienne shuffled a few steps back to stand at a more comfortable distance. “Of course, if you wish.”

“I do.” Tysha skimmed her fingers over her own bountiful brown hair. “You’ve inspired me.” 

“Now, now, don’t be hasty, my lady,” Tyrion chimed in, hopping into the nearest chair. “I’m rather partial to yours just the way it is. Though I must agree that the new fashion suits Miss Tarth very well.” 

“See?” Jaime said smugly, from so close beside her that it made Brienne flinch.

Ignoring him, Brienne returned her attention to Tysha, hoping to draw the conversation away from her appearance to… any other subject at all. “You had a good trip, I hope?”

“We did, thank you. Scotland is just as beautiful as you said it would be.” Tysha turned her beaming smile from Brienne to Lady Stark. “Thank you again for the invitation, my lady. It’s lovely to finally see Winterfell myself after hearing so much about it for so long.” 

“You are most welcome, Lady Tysha. We’re very pleased you could join us,” Lady Stark replied, and while it surprised Brienne to hear it, she actually seemed sincere.

The countess had no more love for Tyrion than she did for Jaime, but it was difficult for anyone not to be charmed by Tysha’s sweet, gentle kindness. Brienne had never met anyone so effortlessly capable of seeing something more in people than what was on the outside—and so earnestly loving them for it. 

“I hope we aren’t causing any difficulty by enticing you to travel so close to your time,” Lady Stark added. “I know how challenging it can be, near the end.” 

“I appreciate your concern, my lady, but I assure you, I’m perfectly well. I might even join the party on a drive or two,” she paused, nodding fondly at her husband, “unless he tries to stop me.”

Tyrion huffed a laugh. “Please, darling. You speak as though I could.”

Brienne’s lips twitched as she gazed between them. He probably _could_ , if he wanted to, but she knew he wouldn’t. Not if it made Tysha happy. 

She stole a glance across the room at her father. If only _he_ would take a similar approach—or just leave himself out of it entirely. 

“You mustn’t let us keep you from your father,” Lady Catelyn said when she saw where Brienne was looking. “Lord Tarth has been eager to see you ever since he arrived.”

“Yes,” Brienne half-heartedly replied. He seemed occupied enough with the other men, but she supposed she couldn’t politely put it off any longer. “I should go speak with him.” 

Jaime swiftly shifted nearer to her, slipping his hand onto her lower back and bending his head close to hers. His breath puffed hot against her ear when he asked, in a low rumble, “Shall I come with you?”

Brienne barely suppressed a shiver. “No, I—it’s better if I go alone.” 

“As you wish,” he acquiesced, but she could hear his disappointment. 

She turned her head toward him, assuming Jaime would adjust his posture so she could speak into _his_ ear. But he didn’t, and their noses nearly brushed before she pulled back a fraction. “Give me a few minutes, and then come and join us,” she murmured, hating the heat licking up her neck and across her cheeks. “I can introduce you once I get this over with.”

“There’s no need for that. I met them earlier, while you were dallying upstairs.”

“You _did_?” she squeaked, less quietly now. Brienne didn’t know why it should bother her that she hadn’t been there. And yet, it did. “Both of them?” 

Jaime gave her an unusually gentle smile. “They came down the stairs before you did. Should I have ignored them?” 

“I—” she spluttered. “No, I suppose not.” 

Brienne teetered on the edge of asking him what he’d said to them, not sure whether she truly wanted to know. In the end, Tyrion made the decision for her when he loudly cleared his throat.

The noise made her jump, and Tyrion was smirking shrewdly when she whipped her head around to look at him—and the rest of them, who she’d all but forgotten were there. The burn in her face intensified as she took in Tysha’s obvious amusement, Lady Stark’s pensive frown, and Sansa’s annoyingly gleeful smile. 

Tyrion nodded theatrically toward the hearth, and when Brienne followed his gaze, she abruptly met her father’s eyes. His brow was peculiarly puckered and his mouth partway open, as though he’d abandoned the conversation mid-sentence to gape at her instead. She forced herself to smile at him, small and stiff, and he smiled back before looking away.

“I could go in your stead,” Tyrion suggested, “if you’d rather keep chatting.” 

“That won’t be necessary,” she said gruffly, and Tyrion winked at her. “Please excuse me.” 

Brienne couldn’t bring herself to so much as peek at Jaime before she walked away, but she felt his gaze on her, as warm and intent as his palm had been against her back, as she crossed the room. 

Lord Stark noticed her approach before the others, and by the time Brienne reached the far side of the hearth, he’d drawn Robb away by the shoulder so that only her father and Mr. Hunt remained. 

“Good evening, Father,” she said, steadfastly _not_ looking at Mr. Hunt. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.” 

“Good evening, my dear.” Her father leaned forward to kiss her briefly on the cheek, then gestured to his companion. “Lord and Lady Stark kindly permitted me to bring a guest, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. This is Mr. Hunt, though I suppose you don’t need an introduction. He tells me the two of you met years ago when he was recovering in Brighton.”

He spoke in the same steady, decided tone he always did, but his eyes told a different story. Brienne saw the truth of the matter, there—his wariness and guilt, his almost desperate hope. It made her chest ache. 

“Yes, Father,” she affirmed, finally fixing her gaze on the man in question. “We did.” 

He wasn’t nearly as handsome as he’d seemed four years before, though she supposed nothing about him had really changed. He’d always had what Sansa would call an ordinary face—plain and undistinguished—but his hazel eyes and dimpled chin and slightly crooked nose had seemed special enough to Brienne, once. Genial. Charming. Honest. 

She knew better now. 

“It’s good to see you again, Miss Tarth.” Mr. Hunt cordially bowed his head. “I wasn’t certain you’d remember me.” 

A derisive noise threatened to burst from her throat, but Brienne managed to swallow it. “I do.” 

She thought her clipped tone might put him on his guard; instead, he had the nerve to look _pleased_ by her answer. 

“I’m flattered, Miss Tarth, truly. I look back on the days of our acquaintance with great fondness and gratitude.” Mr. Hunt’s relaxed smile showed no hint of irony. “Of course, I’d never have presumed you would recall an insignificant lieutenant such as myself, not when your care helped so many soldiers return to health.” 

Stunned by the falsehoods slithering out of his mouth—by his lack of even a sliver of contrition—Brienne stood frozen, unable to respond. 

“Isn’t it nice to hear your efforts made such a difference, Brienne?” her father prompted after several silent seconds had elapsed. “Mr. Hunt speaks so favorably about the time he passed at the hospital. When we met, he told me you were the kindest, most capable nurse he ever had.” 

Brienne ground her teeth. He couldn’t have had more than a handful of nurses in his entire time in the Army—but then, Mr. Hunt had always been a good talker. 

Recovering herself, she asked levelly, “How did the two of you happen to meet?”

“By complete chance, as it were,” her father said. “Lord Trant invited me to stay with him while I was visiting Brighton on business. His son had some fellows over to play cards one evening, and Mr. Hunt was among them.”

“I see.” Brienne looked once more at Mr. Hunt. “Do you often visit Brighton?” 

“Not so often, no. Just when I’m in need of a little seaside holiday.” He waved his hand down at his leg. “The old injury plays up, sometimes.” 

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

Actually, Brienne wouldn’t have minded if he’d ended up with a permanent limp. The gunshot wound he’d sustained, however, had been nowhere near that serious.

“That’s kind of you, Miss Tarth, but it’s nothing so bad.” Mr. Hunt smiled at her with an almost smitten sincerity Brienne had seen on his face before. If she were a man, she might have punched him for it, consequences be damned. “I hope you’ve been keeping well since the war.”

Brienne felt her hold on civility begin to slip, so she just mumbled, “I have, thank you.”

Mr. Hunt began to say something else, and Brienne was not at all sorry that she couldn’t make it out over the sudden, sonorous sound of Mr. Poole’s voice, summoning them into the dining room. 

_Finally_ , she thought. Her shoulders, which seemed to have crept halfway up her neck while they’d been talking, sank a little in relief. 

Unfortunately, the sensation proved fleeting. Mr. Hunt’s arm lifted at his side, and he began moving closer to her, clearing intending to offer it.

Then, somehow, Jaime was there, sliding directly between them and bringing Mr. Hunt up short.

“Miss Tarth,” he said graciously, and the words sounded velvety and oddly formal on his tongue. “Would you do me the honor?” 

“Gladly,” Brienne breathed, meaning the word more than she had in the whole of her life. 

She quickly looped her arm through his, enjoying the sight of Mr. Hunt’s sullen frown far more than she should have.

“Brazen bastard,” Jaime whispered as he whisked her across the room. “He should be groveling at your feet, not offering you his arm.” 

Brienne frowned. She hadn’t expected an apology, not in front of her father, but she hadn’t been prepared for Mr. Hunt to act as though none of it had happened, either. To be so shamelessly confident that she would remain silent, allowing them all to believe he’d treated her with nothing but friendship and respect. 

It nettled her that she’d done exactly that. 

“It’s fine,” she muttered back, trying to convince herself as much as Jaime. Brienne had known the first encounter would be the hardest, and that, at least, was done. “The worst of it is over.” 

“For you, maybe,” Jaime growled. “Not for Mr. Hunt. Not even close.”


	4. Chapter 4

Given the relatively small size of the party, Lady Stark opted to serve dinner in the family dining room rather than the large hall. Brienne usually preferred the cozier, less opulent space; the intimate setting allowed the whole table to engage in conversation together, reducing the pressure on her to make small talk with whoever happened to be seated beside her.

That evening, however, she would have gladly limited herself to Jaime, sitting on her left, and Lord Stark’s nephew Jon Snow, who had claimed the chair to her right. It would certainly have been safer, considering the seating arrangements on the other side of the table. 

Her father had been given the seat of honor at Lord Stark’s right hand. Sansa sat beside him, directly across from Brienne, with Mr. Hunt on her other side—directly across from Jaime.

Brienne spent more of the first course silently surveilling them both than she did eating her soup, but the time passed without incident. Jaime, to her astonishment, remained on his best behavior, and after two more uneventful courses, Brienne’s bristling nerves began to settle.

Then, just after the fourth course had been served, her father asked a seemingly innocuous question that set the whole thing unravelling.

“How are the grouse faring this year, Lord Stark?” 

“Quite well, from what I understand,” Lord Stark said. “I spoke to Mr. Clegane just this afternoon, and he assures me that it’s the best crop of birds we’ve had in years.” 

Jon and Robb chipped in with details about the beaters and loaders the gamekeeper had hired from Winter’s Town and the surrounding countryside. With up to a dozen guns going at once, they would need a great many of them.

“Will we be waiting until the rest of the party arrives, my lord?” Mr. Hunt looked inquiringly down the table at Lord Stark. “Or might we start shooting tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” Lord Stark answered. “We have plenty of time for a drive or two before the others join us.”

“Excellent,” Mr. Hunt proclaimed. “As you can imagine, I’m eager to begin. It’s been some years since I participated in a shoot so large and well organized as this one.” 

Lord Stark inclined his head. “I hope it lives up to your expectations, Mr. Hunt.”

“I’ve no doubt it will, my lord.” Unexpectedly, Mr. Hunt turned his attention to Brienne. “Especially if Miss Tarth will consider standing with me on the first drive.”

Jaime snorted. “She won’t be _standing_ with anyone, Mr. Hunt. She’ll be shooting.” 

Mr. Hunt raised a skeptical eyebrow at her. “You shoot?”

“A bit,” Brienne said, reaching for her wine glass to avoid prolonging her answer. 

“Nonsense. Miss Tarth is the best shot at the table,” Jaime declared. “It pains me to say it, but she might even be better than I used to be.”

“Jaime,” Brienne hissed, forgetting herself.

The corner of his mouth ticked upward, but he gave no other sign that he’d heard her. “I’d tell you to stand with her and see for yourself, but that position has already been filled.” Jaime took a sip of his own wine. “Better luck next time.”

“You won’t be shooting?” Mr. Hunt’s initial surprise twisted into something uglier, but his tone remained light. “Perhaps you’ve had enough of pulling triggers?”

A fork clattered against a plate somewhere on Lady Stark’s end of the table, and beside Brienne, Jon coughed around a mouthful of roast. 

“Oh, I imagine I could be tempted, under the right circumstances.” Jaime’s eyes glowed hot as he held up his scarred hand. “It’s just that this doesn’t work quite as well as it once did. Unfortunately.” 

“Shame,” Mr. Hunt retorted. “I would’ve liked to see which of us could do better.”

Apprehension swirled in Brienne’s stomach. This was getting far too dangerous in a place where so many other ears could hear. She nudged Jaime’s foot beneath the table, willing him to stay silent. 

Naturally, he did not. 

“Ah, yes. I believe Miss Tarth once mentioned that you had a penchant for gambling.” Jaime leaned forward in his chair, flashing Mr. Hunt his broadest, most confident smile. “I’ll happily back her against you in my place. Care to wager?”

Mr. Hunt blanched, and his wide eyes darted immediately to Brienne’s. For the first time all evening, she saw uncertainty there—and perhaps a dash of fear. 

“I’d be careful making that bet, Mr. Hunt,” Jon warned, and Mr. Hunt’s eyes went even rounder. “I tried to beat her myself last year.” He shot Brienne a friendly wink. “I lost.” 

“In that case, I think I’ll decline your wager, Lord Lannister.” Mr. Hunt roughly cleared his throat. “There’s no need to press my luck. I’ve always been more suited to stalking than shooting, anyway.”

“I’ll bet you have,” Jaime muttered, and Brienne kicked him in the ankle. 

Either unruffled or uncaring, Mr. Hunt continued, “Shooting is great fun, of course, but having so many people involved rather takes the skill out of it. Stalking requires much more dedication and patience. Fortitude. It’s a true man’s sport.”

At last, Jaime turned to look at her, his eyes alight with satisfaction. “Remind me, Miss Tarth. How many deer did you take last year?”

Brienne glared back at him, ruing the moment she’d agreed to his blasted conditions. 

“Three,” Arya piped in from Jaime’s other side. “Or was it four?”

Jaime grinned. “An impressive number, either way. Don’t you think so, Mr. Hunt?” 

After a painfully long silence, Brienne risked a glance across the table. Deep furrows creased her father’s brow, and Sansa’s lips were pressed together in a firm line. 

Mr. Hunt, however, had a cool, evaluative expression on his face. “Yes,” he acknowledged, grudging but sincere. “Quite impressive.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Lord Stark eschewed the custom of keeping the men behind in the dining room—he didn’t enjoy smoking, and any political conversation between the Starks and the Lannisters was bound to end badly—so the entire party adjourned together at the end of the meal.

Though he didn’t offer his arm this time, Jaime remained at Brienne’s side as they made their way toward the drawing room. In fact, he’d sidled almost improperly close to her by the time they entered the armory hall, where Tyrion had stopped to wait for them.

“Might I have a word, brother?” As if to indicate he meant that word to be a private one, Tyrion tilted his head contritely at Brienne. “My apologies for depriving you of your escort, Miss Tarth.” 

She didn’t relish the idea of proceeding on her own, but she could hardly say as much. “Not at all, Lord Tyrion.” At the sight of Jaime’s reluctant frown, she added, “I’ll manage just fine.”

“I won’t be long,” he assured her. 

Brienne just nodded and left them to it, though she couldn’t help but overhear Jaime’s demanding “what is it?” as she walked away. 

She didn’t dare linger for Tyrion’s answer, however, so Brienne hurried into the small hall and through the drawing room door. 

Much like earlier in the evening, almost everyone had gathered there before her, though Mr. Hunt didn’t appear to be among them. It wasn’t until Brienne had nearly reached a settee in the far corner of the room, hoping to avoid being accosted by Sansa or Lady Stark about the unfortunate display at dinner, that she heard the man clear his throat and realized he’d skulked up behind her.

Slowly, Brienne turned to face him, briefly surveying the room—and the doorway—in the process. There was no sign of Jaime. 

“May I have a word, Miss Tarth?” he asked affably.

She didn’t exactly have a choice. 

“Very well.” 

Mr. Hunt began moving further into the corner, putting out his arm in an attempt to draw her along with him. Brienne pivoted to follow his movement, ending up with her back mostly to the room, but otherwise refused to move an inch. They were already well out of earshot, provided Mr. Hunt kept his voice down. She had no desire to be half-concealed by shadows as well. 

“There’s no need to fear, Miss Tarth.” Mr. Hunt jerked his head toward the corner with a smile. “I was just hoping for a moment alone.” 

Brienne gave an inelegant shrug. “You have it.” 

“Fair enough.” Mr. Hunt blew out a doleful sigh. “I know you’re cross with me, and I can’t fault you for that.” He shifted his weight between his feet and schooled his face into a regretful frown, but Brienne knew his tells well enough to see how contrived it was. “I didn’t want to raise the issue in front of your father, but I would very much like to clear things up about what happened the last time we saw each other.” 

“Would you?” she asked, impressed by how disinterested she’d managed to sound.

The last time Brienne had seen Mr. Hunt, he’d been laughing at her, right along with all the others. She had no desire to revisit one of the most painful experiences of her life—especially not with _him_ —but she was more than a little curious about how Mr. Hunt intended to weasel his way out of any culpability. 

“Yes, I would,” he replied, quietly vehement. “I should never have allowed that foolish scheme to continue. I can see that now. But it was just something the fellows cooked up to pass the time. They didn’t mean any harm by it.” 

“They?” she asked tightly. “You mean _you_.”

“No, Miss Tarth.” He shook his head. “I swear to you, things weren’t how they appeared. I may have gone along with it, at first, but I came to enjoy our time together very much.” 

Brienne huffed. She’d never heard a less convincing lie. 

Mr. Hunt, however, seemed to take the sound as an invitation to continue. “You see, I never had a chance to explain before you left the hospital, but—”

“Before you drove her away, you mean,” Jaime interrupted, placing his hand protectively on the small of Brienne’s back as he stepped up to her side. “I’m not sure there’s anything _to_ explain.” 

Mr. Hunt eyed him warily. “It was just a misunderstanding.” 

“I’m sure it was,” Jaime said dryly. 

“Either way, it’s nothing to do with you, Lord Lannister,” Mr. Hunt snapped, but the sneer melted from his face as his hazel eyes slid up to meet Brienne’s. “I was hoping Miss Tarth would grant me the chance to start fresh. I made mistakes, to be sure, but it would be unkind to hold them against me forever. It was a long time ago.”

“Not long enough,” Jaime scoffed. “And if you’re asking my fiancée for her forgiveness, surely that means you should actually apologize.”

Shock struck Brienne like a bolt of lightning, crackling from the top of her head straight down through her heels. A pervasive sense of doom followed in its wake, as ominous as a roll of thunder. Had he lost his _mind_?

“I beg your pardon,” Mr. Hunt spluttered. “You? And _her_? You must be joking.”

Jaime smiled, but his green gaze glittered with venom. “I assure you, I am not.”

“But her father said she was—he never mentioned…”

“We only became engaged this very afternoon. Her father is not yet aware that Miss Tarth has consented to be my wife.” 

“Your _wife_?” 

Brienne spun to find Arya gaping at them from only a few steps away. She hadn’t even heard the girl creeping closer. 

“Not just yet,” Jaime told her. “But soon enough, if Lord Tarth will consent to the match.” 

The whole room was staring at them now. 

Brienne felt as though someone had pressed a white-hot flame to her face. Even her ears pulsed with heat as she scanned the room, taking in the mixed expressions of surprise and confusion and, in a few cases, sheer delight.

She couldn’t bring herself to look at her father, but that didn’t stop Jaime from addressing him. 

“I apologize for asking this way, Lord Tarth,” he said, and his voice echoed in the unnatural quiet. “And to the rest of you as well, for the disruption of the party. I had absolutely no intention of doing this so publicly.” His face split into a sheepish grin more captivating than any of Mr. Hunt’s false smiles. “But now that the issue has been raised, my lord, I would like to humbly request your blessing to marry your daughter.”

Every muscle in her body went rigid as Brienne waited for her father to answer. He didn’t even _know_ Jaime. What if he said no? Would that be a bigger or smaller disaster?

Her father narrowed his eyes as he studied Jaime for what felt like a quarter of an hour. Finally, he bobbed his head. “You have it.” 

Then he _smiled_ at them, looking genuinely glad, and remorse slammed into Brienne as forcefully as a horse kick to the chest. What the hell had they just done?

Dimly, she heard Jaime respond, but his words were little more than a dull buzz in her ears. It wasn’t until he leaned in to peck her on the cheek, dangerously close to the corner of her mouth, that she regained her senses.

The room had broken into stilted applause, and someone—Jon or Robb, she suspected—whistled loudly. Jaime was grinning, wide and happy, but there was something else hiding beneath his dimples and the crinkled corners of his eyes. Something she couldn’t read. 

“Well,” Tyrion’s voice boomed from just behind them, “it’s about bloody time.” 

Brienne shot Jaime a puzzled glance just as Tyrion clapped him on the arm. Had he let his brother in on the ruse?

For the merest fraction of a second, Jaime’s smile slipped, but then he gripped Tyrion’s shoulder in return. “Is that what passes for congratulations these days?”

Tyrion smirked. “Hearty congratulations to the both of you, of course. Though I can confidently say my brother is getting the better end of the bargain, Miss Tarth.” 

“Believe me,” Jaime said, looking at her with something startlingly akin to awe, “I’m well aware of that.” 

Tyrion’s eyes danced with mirth as he swung his gaze up to Mr. Hunt. “I’m sorry you wasted your trip, my friend, but you might as well join us for a drink in celebration of the happy couple. Lord Robb has sent for some champagne.” He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder. “Come on, Jaime, let’s fetch your fiancée a drink.” 

Tyrion swiftly turned to go, and Mr. Hunt, without bothering to say another word, followed sullenly behind him.

“Don’t go anywhere.” Jaime settled his hand once more into the faint curve of Brienne’s lower back. “I’ll be right back.” 

She managed an uneven nod, and he kissed her heated cheek _again_ before dashing away to catch up with his brother. 

Brienne touched her fingertips to the place his lips had just been, and the ache beneath her ribs bloomed anew. She quickly let her hand fall when she noticed her father moving in her direction, but she didn’t have time to fully compose herself before he was standing in front of her. 

“Well,” he said, “I certainly wasn’t expecting that.” 

“I wasn’t either,” Brienne mumbled. That, at least, was the truth. 

Her father laughed. “I can see that. And I can’t say that I blame you. I’d given up hope of him, myself.” 

Brienne blinked at him. “You… what?”

He lifted his graying eyebrows. “I’ve long suspected that the man cared for you, Brienne. How could I not, when he wrote you all those letters? And when you returned from your first season with the Starks with nothing but talk of Lord Jaime Lannister on your lips, I hoped you’d finally found someone to make you happy.” 

“I didn’t…” she attempted, foiled by the sudden lump in her throat. “You never said.” 

“No, I didn’t.” His blue eyes, so like hers, regarded her gently. “That was, what, two years ago now? Nothing ever came of it, and I didn’t want to hurt you by asking questions. My meddling had already hurt you enough.” He grimaced. “I was determined to let you be, after that, but then I met Mr. Hunt. He spoke so kindly of you, and I thought… well, it doesn’t matter. It was clearly a mistake to bring him here. He’s not the man I thought he was.” 

“No.” Brienne felt a fresh twinge of guilt. “But you couldn’t have known that.”

Her father frowned. “No, but I could have let you work things out on your own. I _should_ have.” He gestured behind him with a slight tip of his head. “You’ve done far better for yourself than I ever could have, my dear girl. It will be the great joy of my life to see you in a marriage built on the same kind of love I felt for your mother.” 

Brienne’s chin trembled, and she quickly lowered her gaze to the floor. How was she ever going to tell him?

“Brienne?” The concern in her father’s voice drew her eyes back to his. “You _do_ love him, don’t you?”

Tears, stinging and unbidden, rose to her eyes as she glanced beyond her father to the other end of the room. The footmen had brought half a dozen bottles of champagne to the sideboard, and Jon and Robb were jovially pouring glasses. Jaime stood close beside them, staring straight at her. 

He smiled, warm and slow and affectionate, and for a heart-stopping moment, it felt possible. 

It felt _real._

“Yes,” Brienne said softly. “I do.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had intended to wait until tomorrow to post this, but I just looked at my calendar and apparently I have seven work meetings starting ridiculously early in the morning. So... have the last chapter tonight instead!
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has been reading along over the past few days. We've had such a glorious glut of fic with this exchange, so I appreciate all of you that have chosen to take a gander at mine. I've sincerely enjoyed your comments, too! 
> 
> And extra special thanks to Weirwoo for giving me the prompt that inspired an AU in a setting I've always wanted to write. I hope you enjoy the ending! <3

Brienne woke the next morning with a pounding in her head and a heaviness in her chest, as though she’d spent the entire night with the invisible weight of her lie crushing her into the mattress. 

She was still in bed—more than half an hour past the time she would normally have been dressed and downstairs for breakfast—when Jeyne came in bearing the news that Mr. Hunt had left at dawn. It didn’t surprise her, not with the way he’d behaved the day before, but it did nothing to ease the unpleasant pressure in Brienne’s sternum. 

Even if he’d stayed, Hyle Hunt would have been the least of her problems. 

She still couldn’t fathom what fit of insanity had driven Jaime to feign an _engagement_ , but his announcement in the drawing room had spiraled the evening into an unequivocal catastrophe. 

As soon as the champagne had been poured, Lord Stark had led the room in the first of several toasts to their future. Later, her father had invited Jaime to Evenfall so he could “get to know his future son-in-law,” and Tysha had professed her immense pleasure at the notion that she and Brienne would soon be sisters.

All the while, Jaime had smiled and laughed and radiated enough happiness for the both of them, so Brienne had just played along as best she could, allowing the sham to continue. Deceiving her father. Deceiving them all.

And that wasn’t even the worst of it. Not when she’d allowed herself to acknowledge out loud, to her father’s face, the painful truth she’d been trying to suppress for nearly four years.

She was in love with Jaime Lannister. 

Brienne’s eyes burned as she recalled the gust of his breath against her ear, the brush of his lips on her cheek, the steady warmth of his hand against her lower back, the slow spread of his smile. She hadn’t bargained for him being quite so good at pretending. 

Instead of shielding her, Jaime had shot a cannon directly at her most crucial defenses—the ones she’d built to hold in her feelings, to wall them off even from herself—and they had come crumbling down. 

“Miss Tarth?” Jeyne inquired softly. “Are you unwell?” 

Brienne swiped her fingers across her damp cheeks. “Yes, actually. I think I am.”

She had never used an ailment as an excuse in her life, and it felt almost cowardly to do it now. But Brienne just couldn’t face them all. Not yet. She needed some time to think. 

“Would you be so kind as to tell Lady Stark that I’m in bed with a terrible headache?” Perhaps the countess would put it down to the champagne, provided she hadn’t noticed that Brienne barely managed to finish the single glass Jaime had handed her. “Give her ladyship my apologies, but tell her I plan to stay in and rest this morning while the party goes for the first drive. I’ll try and join them when they return for luncheon.” 

“Yes, Miss Tarth.” Jeyne gave a slight, and wholly unnecessary, curtsey. “I’ll tell her at once.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Twenty minutes after the last car had crunched down Winterfell’s long gravel drive, bound for the line of butts out on the grouse moors, Brienne donned her tweed shooting suit and ventured out from her room.

She went downstairs to the dining room first, intent on picking over whatever remained of breakfast, but the tepid dishes of eggs and kippers and sausages made her stomach churn. The stale, stone-cold toast was just as unappealing, but Brienne forced a slice of it down along with her usual two cups of tea.

By the time she’d finished, her headache had begun to ebb, and she left the dining room in favor of the library. At that time of day, Brienne hoped she wouldn’t be disturbed there while she attempted to sort through her thoughts.

Lady, lounging in her favorite sunny spot, lifted her head when Brienne entered the room—and she wasn’t the only one. 

Jaime, dressed in tweeds of his own, glanced up from where he sat reading a newspaper on one of the twin floral sofas by the hearth. When his eyes met hers, an odd mixture of pleasure and uncertainty flickered across his face. 

“Good morning at last,” he said lightly, folding the paper and tossing it aside. “Are you feeling better?” 

“A bit.” Brienne came further into the room, past where Lady was curled on the floor, and stopped just a few steps from where Jaime was sitting. “I thought I was—I thought you would have gone with them.”

“Well, I didn’t.” He shrugged. “Why would I, when I intended to stand with you?” 

“Oh.” Something clenched deep inside Brienne’s chest. She hadn’t thought of that. “I’m sorry you missed the morning on my account, then. But since you’re here…” Brienne paused to seat herself on the sofa across from him. “I suppose we should talk before the others return.”

Jaime arched one golden eyebrow. “Should we?”

She wasn’t at all prepared for it, but it made no sense to delay the conversation. Not when they had the opportunity to talk so easily in private.

“We have to, Jaime.” Brienne spoke as matter-of-factly as she could manage, levelly meeting his gaze. “What are we going to do about this?”

He frowned. “Do we have to do anything?”

Brienne sighed. Surely he knew they did. 

If they didn’t put a stop to it now, the Tarlys, Tullys, and Westerlings would hear all about it by the end of the day, and the news would spread to every corner of the country by the time the month was done. 

“I mean it,” she insisted. “I appreciate what you did last night, but…”

Jaime narrowed his eyes. “But what?”

“You asked my father for his blessing to marry me,” she said slowly. 

“Yes.”

“In front of everyone.”

“Yes.”

Frustrated, Brienne flung out her hands. “And you don’t see the _problem_ with that? When you were only meant to—”

“What?” Jaime asked sharply. “ _Pretend_?” His nostrils flared. “What if I don’t want to pretend anymore?”

Brienne closed her eyes for a long moment, hoping to keep the tears she felt rising behind them from reaching the surface. She couldn’t recall ever feeling this fragile, as though a single pointed word from him might shatter her into a thousand pieces.

“I’m sorry,” she breathed, without really knowing why. 

“Sorry?” His voice softened. “I don’t want your apologies, Brienne.” 

She had to swallow to keep herself from apologizing again. “I should never have asked you to do it in the first place. I wish I hadn’t. If I’d just told everyone the truth, then I wouldn’t...” 

“Wouldn’t what?” Jaime asked, throaty and low. 

Brienne stared down at the dark red pattern on the rug, once again blinking against an onslaught of tears. “I wouldn’t have to tell my father it was all a lie.”

She heard a creak and a vague rustle just before the cushions sank at her side, and Brienne snapped her head up to find that Jaime, looking oddly pained, had moved to sit next to her.

“It wasn’t a lie,” he said quietly.

“Of course it was.” That _she_ hadn’t been the one to tell it made no difference at all. “They think you want to marry me, Jaime.”

“Well, you see, that’s the thing. I do.”

Brienne jerked back hard enough to make her hair swish around her chin. “What?” 

“I _do_ want to marry you.” Jaime scraped a hand along his jaw. “I never meant for it to happen like this, but goddamn it, Brienne, I’ve been courting you for two years and you never even _noticed_. And then I came here and you… oh, to hell with it.”

He surged forward so quickly she didn’t even have time to shut her eyes before his lips met hers, but they slid closed of their own accord as Jaime brought his hands up to her face. 

It couldn’t be happening. Jaime couldn’t be kissing her—ardent and searching and more wonderful than she could ever have imagined. He couldn’t be slanting his soft, warm mouth against hers and slipping a hand into her hair. And yet he was.

Just as she gathered her courage to attempt to kiss him back, Jaime angled his chin for a final, tender press of his lips and pulled himself away. He didn’t go far, though; she could still feel the heat of him looming against her.

When Brienne opened her eyes, Jaime’s were so close that she could see flecks of bronze and gold shimmering amidst the bottomless green. “What did you do that for?” she asked, breathless and dazed.

Jaime huffed against her lips. “Because I love you, you daft woman.”

Once, she might have thought it a jest. But Brienne knew him too well for that, now—knew better than to mistake the earnest softness in his gaze for anything other than what it was.

She had no choice but to believe him.

The instant she did, countless disparate pieces clicked into place inside her head, and suddenly, Brienne saw the truth.

He’d said two years, but it had been more than that—almost since the beginning. Looking back, she recognized the evidence of it in a hundred little things, from the moment he had begun signing his letters simply “yours.” How had she never realized it before?

Jaime had always hated parties as much as she did, and yet he attended every function the Starks dragged her to, hovering close by and engaging her in whatever argument would annoy her enough to make her forget about the rest of the room. He took an unholy delight in making her blush, but he never seemed more chuffed with himself than when he made her laugh. And Sansa had been right; he’d called on her with surprising and marginally inappropriate frequency from the very start.

He was constantly _giving_ her things, too—a gold-tipped fountain pen, a new fencing foil, a pair of riding gloves. He’d even tried to buy her a dress once, but Brienne had drawn the line at that. 

He didn’t do things like that for anyone else, except occasionally Tyrion and Tysha. Only her. 

Perhaps if she hadn’t been so unused to the idea that anyone could possibly love her, Brienne would have understood what it meant. 

“Jaime,” she murmured, and he smiled—the same slow, intimate smile he’d given her the night before, and Brienne felt the truth of that, too. 

He hadn’t been good at pretending. He’d never been pretending at all. 

“Do you know,” he lilted, still smiling, “the first time you called me that was in this very room?”

Brienne tilted back, peering at the bookshelves and furniture scattered around them. “Was it?” 

They’d screened the library in two at the time, she recollected, so the officers could use the half closest to the armory hall. She supposed they must have spent time in it together, at one time or another, but she couldn’t recall anything specific. 

Jaime nodded. “It was always _Captain Lannister_ before that, no matter how I goaded you about it. Then, one day, I said something smart and you scolded me for it, just like you always did, but you used my name.” 

Despite Brienne’s several layers of clothing, goosebumps prickled up her arms. “You remember that?”

“Of course I remember. I’d been wanting to hear you say it for a long time.” He quirked his head, and his smile turned rueful. “Though I’m not sure I could have said why.”

“You didn’t call me Brienne until the day you left,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. 

_That_ moment was seared into her memory: the sight of him, devastatingly handsome in his uniform, standing in the entrance hall as she wished him well in his further recovery. She had expected a witty retort, but he’d looked at her with a strange shining in his eyes and said only, “Goodbye, Brienne.”

“I remember that, too,” Jaime rasped. “I remember a lot of things. How strong you were when I leaned on your arm in the garden, and how gentle you were when you changed my bandages. The little lines you’d get, just here,” he reached up and stroked a finger between her eyebrows, “when you were trying not to smile. The way your freckles multiplied in sunlight.” He traced the same finger across her cheek. “I didn’t know I loved you then, but I did.” 

Brienne had never been as good with words as Jaime was, and she was too overwhelmed to even _try_ to express the profundity of what she was feeling—the tempest of emotions that threatened to drown her and fling her into the sky all at once. So she did the only thing she could think of that would make him understand. 

Jaime grunted in surprise when she lurched toward him and pressed her mouth to his, but then he wound his arms around her and pulled her so tightly against him Brienne thought they might actually fuse together. 

She was clumsy and unpracticed, and she bumped her nose awkwardly against his as she tried to mimic his movements, but Jaime didn’t seem to mind. In fact, when she pulled away to breathe, he gave her only enough time for a single gulp of air before chasing after her, once again covering her mouth with his own. He swiped his tongue gently along her lips, making her shiver, and Brienne felt him smile. When she tentatively returned the gesture, he groaned like a dying man.

Brienne could have gone on kissing him like that forever—and perhaps she would have, if there hadn’t been something important she needed to tell him first. 

She eased away, insistently this time, resting her hand against his chest to keep him from surging toward her again. “I love you, too, Jaime.”

His eyes fluttered closed, then blinked open again, bright with emotion. “In that case, I have something for you.” He leaned back, reaching inside the pocket of his jacket. “Something I should have given you ages ago.” 

Brienne’s pulse pounded frantically in her ears as Jaime pulled out a small box and opened it, holding it up so she could see that it contained a ring—a large sapphire in a silver band inset with dozens of small, glittering diamonds. 

Too stunned to speak, she just dragged her gaze from the ring up to Jaime’s face.

“I’ve been carrying it with me everywhere for months,” he told her, and Brienne thought her heart might tear straight through her ribs. “I bought the damn thing in a tiny shop in Lannisport last November. As soon as I saw it, I knew it was yours. Sansa helped me get it sized.” 

Brienne sucked in a strangled breath. “Sansa _knew_?” 

Jaime grinned, and a few more pieces fell into place. 

“I made her swear she wouldn’t give it away,” he explained. “I told her I planned to ask you to marry me the first time I saw you in London this spring.” 

The word _marry_ sent a thrum through her veins, and the sensation was nearly enough to make Brienne overlook the oddity of that statement. But Jaime didn’t usually delay when he’d decided to do something. In fact, he often did things _without_ deciding. 

“Why didn’t you?” she asked. “You had to know that I—how I… how I felt.”

“I hoped I did, but I’ve been wrong before.” Jaime drew his eyebrows together. “And even if I wasn’t, I didn’t know if it would be enough.” He lifted his right hand to cup her cheek. “As you may recall, you seemed quite determined not to be a wife at all, and being _mine_ means becoming Lady Lannister—Lady Castamere, someday. You were never all that pleased to be a viscount’s daughter, so how could I suppose you would want to be a marchioness?”

Brienne allowed herself to lean into his touch. She _didn’t_ want to be a marchioness, no more than Jaime himself wanted to be a marquess. But that didn’t matter. Not if it meant sharing her life with him. 

“Besides,” he continued, frowning, “I’m not—and you’re…” He brushed his thumb reverently along the edge of her jaw. “I’m not an easy man, Brienne. You know that better than anyone. Sometimes I’m not even sure I’m a good one.” 

“You are.” She closed her fingers around his wrist, feeling the raised skin of his scars beneath her palm. “And I’d be proud to be your wife.”

An incandescent joy overtook his face—like someone had turned on a light inside him and it was glowing through his eyes and smile and skin. Brienne didn’t think she’d ever seen such pure, unguarded happiness, but she felt it, right there, mirrored in her own heart. 

“I’ll spend my life striving to be worthy of that pride,” he said huskily, sliding his hand from her grasp so he could take hold of her left instead. “I swear to you, I will.”

“You already are.” It broke Brienne’s heart that he could possibly doubt it. “I wouldn’t love you if you weren’t, Jaime.” 

“You _would_ ,” he replied, and when she frowned at him, Jaime let out a half-choked sound that might have been a laugh. “But I can see this is an argument I’m not going to win.” He glanced down at his lap, fumbling with his left hand to slip the sapphire ring from its box and onto her finger. “Either way, there’s no going back now.” 

“I don’t want to go back,” Brienne murmured. She could barely comprehend that it was truly happening in the first place. 

Jaime looked strangely unconvinced. “I know my family is…”

“Your family is wonderful,” she said, thinking of Tyrion and Tysha. Lord Castamere was another matter, but Brienne had put up with her fair share of unpleasant men before. “I don’t relish the idea of living under your father’s roof, but—”

“We don’t have to,” he interrupted. “Not if you don’t want to. At least not for now.” 

“Oh? What did you have in mind?” Casterly House in London was nice enough, but she knew Lord Castamere frequented it often when the House of Lords was in session. And Brienne didn’t think she’d enjoy spending the entire year in town. 

He bit his lip. “Well, I _may_ have bought a little cottage not far from Tarth. Greenstone Manor.”

“The old Estermont estate? That’s hardly a cottage, Jaime.” It was nearly as large as Evenfall. “I thought they’d sold that months ago.” 

“They did.” Jaime’s eyes gleamed with amusement as he nodded. “Last summer. And I bought it. God knows I’ll enjoy it much more with you there.” 

Brienne’s brow pulled tight in surprise. “You’ve stayed there?” 

That meant he’d not only _bought a house_ in Sussex, but he’d spent time in it, no more than thirty minutes away from her, and never breathed a word. 

“Once or twice.” He winked. “Pining for you from two villages away.” 

Brienne shook her head, exasperated. “You should have told me. You could have come to Evenfall. Met my father.”

“I was never invited.”

“You are now.”

“Yes, I am,” he teased, grinning. “No thanks to you.”

She would have rebuked him for that, but Jaime tugged her to his chest before she could speak. This time, he kissed her slowly, thoroughly, as though they had all the time in the world. Brienne gave herself up to it—to him—until a distant sound startled her away. 

The room was empty when Brienne glanced around, but it could easily not have been. The door wasn’t even closed.

“We should have been more careful,” she muttered. “What if someone sees?” Her face reddened at the thought. 

Utterly unconcerned, Jaime inched his mouth closer to hers. “Let them see. We’re an engaged couple, remember?” 

“I suppose we are,” she said quietly, suddenly aware of the unfamiliar weight on her finger.

Jaime smirked. “Perhaps I’ll write Mr. Hunt a letter, thanking him for bringing it about.”

Brienne dropped her forehead to his shoulder so he wouldn’t see her smile. “You’re terrible.”

“I am.” Jaime nuzzled his nose into her hair. “And yet, you love me.” 

He sounded much too pleased with himself, but Brienne couldn’t bring herself to censure him for it. Not when she could admit it freely now—not when she knew he would say it back. 

Not when it was real and astonishing and gloriously true. 


End file.
